them and he's absolutely devoted to her.'
'Do you know the nature of the evidence against him?' asked the rabbi.
'You mean he'd been playing around. So what? Do you know his wife has been in a wheelchair with multiple sclerosis for the last ten years of her life? For ten years they haven't had any-uh-relations.'
'No, I didn't know that.'
'A healthy man needs a woman. You being a rabbi wouldn't understand-'
'Rabbis aren't castrated.'
'All right, I'm sorry. Then you know what I'm talking about. The girls he went out with didn't mean that to Mel.' He snapped his fingers. 'They were somebody he went to bed with, like he might go to a gym for a workout.'
'Well, I'm not sure they're precisely analogous, but that's beside the point. What do you want me to do?'
'I don't know. You were in your study all evening. Maybe you could say you happened to look out the window and saw a man drive out of the parking lot, and you can swear that it wasn't a blue Lincoln-'
'Are you asking me to perjure myself?'
'Jesus, pardon me, rabbi. I'm so upset I don't know what I'm saying. I'm going nuts with this business. This morning I lose a sale to a customer who's been buying Continentals from me every other year, regular like a calendar, for the last ten years. We come to terms Satur-day and he's supposed to come in at noon to sign the contract. When he doesn't show, I call him and he tells me he's thinking of holding the old car for a little while longer and maybe he might go into a smaller car. You think business was bad for him this year? He had his biggest year. You know why he suddenly, got cold on the deal? Fifteen years Mel and I have worked to build up this business, and now, overnight, it's going to pot.'
'Is it your business you are concerned about, or your friend?' asked the rabbi coldly.
'It's everything. It's all mixed up in my mind. Mel wasn't only a partner or a friend-he was like a kid brother to me. And when you've spent fifteen years building up something, it isn't just another way of making a living. It's part of me. It's my life. It's to me what your profession is to you. And now my whole world has suddenly gone sour.'
'I can understand your position, Mr. Becker,' said the rabbi, not unkindly, 'and I wish I could help. But you haven't come here to ask me to give your friend spiritual consolation. What you ask is utterly impossible. I'm afraid this business has warped your judgment, or you would realize that even if I were willing to do what you suggest, it would not be believed.'
'I know, I know. It's just that I'm desperate, rabbi.
But something you should be able to do. You're his rabbi, aren't you?'
'I have been led to believe I have been criticized for devoting my time to noncongregational matters,' he observed quietly. 'I understand that Mr. Bronstein is not a member of the congregation.'
Becker was angry now. 'All right, so what? Does that mean you can't help him? He's a Jew, isn't he? He's a member of the Jewish community here in Barnard's Crossing and you're the only rabbi here. You can at least go to see him, can't you? You can at least see his wife. They're not members, you say. All right, so I am. Help me.'
'As a matter of fact,' said the rabbi, 'I already have an appointment to see Mrs. Bronstein and I was making arrangements to see Mr. Bronstein when you rang the bell.'
Becker was not stupid. He even managed a grin. 'All right, rabbi, maybe I had that coming to me. What do you have in mind?'
'Chief Lanigan was here earlier and outlined the case against Mr. Bronstein. At the time, I thought the evidence admitted of another interpretation. But I don't really know the Bronsteins. So I thought I first ought to try to know them.'
'You'll never meet two nicer people, rabbi.'
'You realize how organizations work, Mr. Becker, and the police, I should imagine, are no different. They look everywhere until they find a suspect, but then they're likely to concentrate on him from then on. I thought I might be able to persuade Chief Lanigan not to stop looking elsewhere.'
'That's just what I had in mind, rabbi,' said Becker ecstatically. 'It's just what I said to Abe Casson. Ask him. I feel better already.'
20
The jail consisted of four small steel-barred cells on the first floor of the Barnard's Crossing police station. Each cell had a narrow iron cot, a toilet, and a washbasin; a bulb in a porcelain socket dangled from the ceiling, suspended by a length of BX cable. A dim lamp burned day and night in the corridor, at one end of which was a barred window and at the other the wardroom. Beyond that was Lanigan's office.
From the wardroom, Hugh Lanigan showed the rabbi the ceils and then led the way back to his office. 'It isn't much of a jail,' he said, 'but fortunately it's all we need. I suppose it's one of the oldest jails in the country. This building goes back to Colonial times, and was originally used as the town hall. It's been fixed up of course, and renovated from time to time, but the foundation and most of the supporting beams are the original ones. And the cells have been modernized with electricity and flush toilets and running water, but they're still the original cells and they date back to before the Civil War.'
'Where do the prisoners eat?' asked the rabbi.
Lanigan laughed. 'We don't usually have them in the plural, except perhaps on Saturday night when we sometimes pick up a few drunk and disorderlies and let them sleep it off overnight. When we do have somebody in during mealtimes, one of the restaurants nearby, Barney Blake's usually, puts up a box lunch. In the old days, the police chief used to make a pretty good thing out of prisoners. The town allowed him a certain amount for each one kept overnight, plus a certain amount for each meal served. When I first joined the force, the chief was constantly after us patrolmen to bring in drunks. Anyone who stumbled on the street was apt to find himself locked up for the night. But some time ago long before I took over, the town upped the chiefs salary and provided a regular allowance for feeding the prisoners, and I guess chiefs haven't been so anxious to make arrests since.'
'And your prisoners are confined to those little cells until they come up for trial?'
'Oh no. If we decide to charge your friend, we'll bring him up before a judge sometime tomorrow, and if he tells us to hold him the prisoner will be transferred to the jail in Salem or Lynn.'
'And are you planning to charge him?'
'That's pretty much up to the district attorney. We'll show him what we've got and maybe he'll ask some questions and then he'll make up his mind. He could decide not to charge him with the murder but to hold him as a material witness.'
'When will I be able to see him?'
'Right now, if you like. You can visit with him in his cell or see him right here in my office.'
'I think I'd rather see him alone, if you don't mind.'
'Oh, that's all right, rabbi. I'll have him brought in here and leave you two together.' He laughed. 'You're not carrying any weapons concealed about your person, are you? No files or hacksaws?'
The rabbi smiled and patted his jacket pockets. Lanigan went to the door that opened into the wardroom and shouted to one of the policemen to bring the prisoner into his office. Then he closed the door and left the rabbi alone. A moment later, Bronstein came in.
He seemed much younger than his wife, but the rabbi put that down to the difference in health rather than age. He was embarrassed.
'I sure appreciate your coming to see me, rabbi, but I'd give anything to have this meeting someplace else.'
'Of course.'
'You know, I found myself thinking that I was glad my parents were both dead-yes, and that I had no children. Because I wouldn't be able to face them, even when the police finally find the guilty person and let me go.'
'I understand, but you must realize that misfortune can happen to anyone. Only the dead are safe from it.'
